


Addicted To You (& SEX)

by a_different_equation



Series: you give love a bad name [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: (not between Sherlock and John), Adultery, Angst, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Codependency, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Introspection, John Watson Makes Questionable Life Choices, M/M, Marking, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is a Mess, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-14 06:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: After sex with Watson (who's still married to Mary), Holmes stays awake and goes into his mind palace. He's surprised what and who he finds there...





	Addicted To You (& SEX)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelian/gifts).
  * A translation of [Nella tana del coniglio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14424384) by [Kelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelian/pseuds/Kelian). 



> Here we are again...
> 
> welcome to the third part of "you're mine doctor/you give love a bad name" aka kelian & ade writing & translating RDJ!Johnlock. I loved this story because you've got the possibility to look into Sherlock Holmes' brain as well his heart, and let me tell you, it's a fascinating as well as intense experience. Bascially, you want to say, "poor gay sad baby" one second and "WTF" the next. (Or, at least, that's what I did A LOT.) Or, welcome back to the ANGST train. (Also, sex and kinks and you've been warned.) 
> 
> Care to come along...

_Wise man say_  
_Only fool rush in_  
_But I can’t help falling in love with you_

 

 

Holmes was sitting in the chair in the middle of the room, completely naked, smoking his pipe, absorbed in thoughts.

He was in the room upstairs of the building where he took part in bare-handed boxing matches. Holmes had bought it years ago as a quiet place to rest or concentrate on his cases without distractions, but he had been used it even more in recent month when he and Watson had decided that this would be the perfect place to express their illegal love without fear of being discovered; fortunately the owners of the underlying room were very decent people.

As soon as they had finished making love, Watson had immediately fallen asleep exhausted by the embrace but also visibly satisfied; only the following day, when Watson would return home, he would have regretted his wife’s betrayal, repeating to himself that he would never do anything like that again because it was terribly wrong, that sooner or later they would be discovered and pay an expensive price for this passion, but he always returned to that safe haven because even the doctor did not want to admit it, he knew that he could not resist Holmes’ call.

Spirals of smoke rose slowly from the pipe as the detective’s attentive glance rested on the lover’s uncovered back, the white skin glistening in the flickering light of the candle he had lit to admire him in his vigil. He, Watson, was naked too, the only part covered was the hips on which he had pulled the sheets before yielding to sleep, and not because he was cold, but out of modesty.

Holmes had not dressed after getting out of bed cautiously so as not to wake his partner. He did not worry about his nakedness, not when the only one who could see him was Watson, and he was deep asleep now. Before the clandestine affair began, Holmes did not care if someone saw him without clothes, but now his body was completely marked by bites and scratches, not counting a good amount of pacifiers, left by his doctor for obvious reasons.

In all the times they had been in bed together in the dark, he had never forgotten that he should not let go completely, even if it was not easy, not to let Mary know that her husband betrayed her and yet every time he needed more self-control to hold back, he knew that sooner or later he would make a mistake because, despite what everyone thought, including Watson, he, Sherlock Holmes, was terribly human.

His gaze travelled along the spine of the man, huddled in a foetal position, and immediately, Holmes felt his body quiver. He reminiscence what they had done an hour ago, remembering how he had tightened his fingers in the doctor’s short blond hair while his lover had sank into him, push after push, without worrying that their moans and their cries of pleasure could be heard from the patrons downstairs, as, as usual, they were holding meetings and the crowd was shouting and cursing the favourites.

He had to admit that this place was perfect for them and their secret.

Holmes gave a little sigh and sat down on the wooden chair. Now, after having been buggered by Watson countless time, his arse did not hurt anymore and every time he was penetrated, all he felt was love and pleasure, and now, every day, every hour, Holmes was waiting for the moment when they would cross the threshold of that shelter and to be taken, filled and devoured by his companion.

He could no longer do without his love and his passion, happy to let himself fall without reserve in that relationship, much desired by both of them, even though Holmes knew, as far he was concerned, he would come out ruined and destroyed whenever that small and pleasant interlude was over; he would have to close himself off, especially for his sanity, only that he knew that it was already to late because he could not help but love Watson now.

Holmes had seriously tried to leave his former roommate behind, trying to reasoning and using his analytical mind, and he was almost successful or so had believed. Not that he had stopped loving Watson – that was impossible – but he had managed to keep him away from his cases and to remind Watson of his duties as a doctor and a husband; he had divided their lives just enough so as not to fall into temptation again. But everything had been ruined by the unforeseen kiss bestowed on him by the doctor; the kiss that that led to him confessing everything: the love he had tried for a long time to hide, the memory of their first night when Watson had been drunk, the idea of the room as the ideal shelter where they could express their passion.

He had never regretted what they were doing, although he probably should have. Nevertheless, he had enjoyed every minute in those four bare walls and the knowledge that all of this was wrong made it even more exciting.

 

 _Shall I stay?_  
_Would it be a sin?_  
_If I can’t help falling in love with you_

 

So many times in the dark he had thought about leaving the room and never crossing the threshold again, about cutting himself of his feelings again and returning to the strictly platonic companionship prior; without distractions, without unnecessary superfluous thoughts that interrupted unsolicited his reasoning.

Alternatively, maybe he should even go further than that, Holmes pondered some nights. It would be the right thing to do, to cut all the bridges and leave London, maybe to retire to the Sussex countryside to take care of bees, to get away from Watson forever. Perhaps he could also move to the continent and pretend to forget about the man who had stolen his heart irreparably, that Watson could break and reassemble at every meeting. Maybe he would met other people and could establish something new, something different, it would not been Watson but maybe it would be possible? It would be sensible, for sure.

Yet, every time Holmes laid his eyes on that sleeping body, his firmness failed and the only thing he could do was to stay where he was because no part of him wanted to leave John.

The detective suppressed a sarcastic, tired laugh, slowly running a hand across his face. He had become what he had always criticized with a grimace of disgust on his face: a fool possessed by love, but only now, as he understood that spiral of desire, pain and strange heat in his chest, it was practically impossible to come out, and above all, it was impossible to ignore it; one was suddenly submerged and swept away and there was nothing to be done for: one could only become a slave to that inhuman force.

In fact, he really felt like an idiot to fall into that sweet and bitter trap that immediately closed with a click on his head as soon as he had carelessly put a foot inside; to be precise, when he had succumbed to the advances of the drunken doctor back then, even though he had always knew that nothing good would come out of it; but even worse, now, he knew, that the feeling that he had criticized a lifetime long – sentiment – made him feel alive like never before, sentiment proofed to almost as potent as a stimulant as a case.

He had a strong desire to play the violin which would help him to reflect and to brighten up his mind that always happen to be crowded full of thoughts in the aftermath of their lovemaking. However, it could not be done, as it would woke up his companion who rested so serene, snoring slightly.

When they were still living together in Baker Street, it had often happened that Holmes had pinched the strings of his instrument at impossible times, waking up the roommate, Mrs. Hudson and the neighbours, but the doctor got rarely angry as he had known how useful the habit was for Holmes. Nowadays, he gave it up willingly because first, Watson needed the sleep, and second, to see him sleep was a show that only a lunatic would interrupt and, even if everyone considered him one, he was not.

Holmes closed his eyes, put his fingertips together, and went into his mind palace.

He could still feel Watson’s hand gripping his hips tightly to help his movements while he buggered him, thighs against hips, looking at him from below with his eyes half closed and tarnished with pleasure. Their smell mingled, creating something new and unique, intoxicating him, he could still feel it in the air. He remembered very well how his body had jerked at every thrust, how he felt empty whenever Watson was not in him, depriving him of that exquisite pleasure and then making him moan when he had come back with a single push, almost taking his breath away.

They were sinning – sodomy and adultery – without having any real regret.

The detective had dragged him into that black vortex of perversion, he was sure of it. He who had swore to himself to never speak of that first night two years ago again in Baker Street, but when Watson is concerned it seemed as if the world’s only consulting detective had no strength to dissuade him.

By now, Holmes had lost count about the number of sleepless nights, thinking of what would happened if someone would discover them, if the patrons would suspect something and decide to go and see what they were doing and why the doctor would accompany him a couple of days a week overnight but be gone in the mornings. Holmes knew all to well that even a crime that seemed perfect had small cracks and slits that left clues to those who knew how to grasp them.

They lived every meeting on the edge of a razor, risking everything but Holmes knew for a long time now that the doctor would give everything away if he would only ask even life and dignity. Nevertheless, there was no way out as an existence without Watson was a half-life.

The detective stood up and reloaded his pipe, lit it, then started walking nervously back and forth across the half-dark room. The bare feet made no noise on the wooden blanks. There were still notes on the floor from the last case he had solved.

Watson snorted in his sleep, moving slowly without waking up.

Holmes had wanted to live Watson his normal life, one of a loving husband without the secret. However, it was impossible to let him go after so many times. After the first time, it had been easier, the second and third time it had taken some effort, but certainly, after sharing a bed with Watson five times, all was lost. Now, after more than two years as his secret lover, he had surrendered soul and body to the man who had succeeded in the foremost impossible task of making him fall in love.

“Damn it!” Holmes cursed through clenched teeth, running a hand through his black hair, twisting it more than it already was. It was a complicated problem and apparently without a solution even for him.

If only Mary had never been there, if only they could continue their life as bachelors at 221b Baker Street. Sometimes when his mood stroke, he thought that the wife was a demon sent to create chaos in their little corner of paradise.

When Holmes had realized that Watson would not give up her, he had forged Irene’s ring into an engagement for them and had even accepted to be his best man on the wedding day. The ceremony had been torturous and he had left early; not seeing if the groom’s smile had faded or if the thought of Mary’s victorious gaze was just his imagination. He had left without saying a word.

It might have been a small relief, his own victory, when Watson, drunk after going out with his mates, had started their affair. Since then Holmes knew for sure that John held strong and deep feelings for him. Back then, Holmes had thought it would be a one-off. He had told himself that it had been for the better, that he now held a memory so bright that it could work as a little light in the darkness of sadness, which he had been submerged since Mary had set foot in their lives.

Fortunately, Holmes had been wrong; many more times had followed the first.

Especially, when Mary had left the city a few days to go visit a relative, leaving them on their own and giving them the chance to love without too many problems and simply letting go, returning the marks that his lover impressed him in the heart of passion with soothers and scratches.

Holmes closed his eyes and took a deep breath, continuing to walk nervously without any light apart from a candle to illuminate the steps; he knew the room very well, so well that he was not afraid to meet an obstacle and stumble because every details, as always, was well printed in his mind.

Many times, he had thanked fate for giving him Watson, giving him the only person in the world who could really stand it and who easily penetrated the hard armoury he had built around to keep away the feelings so common to all human beings that he thought they could destroy his perfect brain.

After all he was not wrong, that love unexpectedly matched but that he could not fully live, he was consuming it, even more than the stormy relationship with Irene Adler and Victor Trevor in the past, because now he knew with absolute certainty, that love, the real one, he had found it in John.

During his career as an consulting detective, he had heard of people who had given up everything to follow his or her beloved, sometimes being cruelly abandoned or cheated if their companions were untrustworthy scoundrels, and had often captured men or women who had committed a crime to please the one for whom they felt a strong passion. Until then he had never really understood how one could be manipulated to such an extent, but now he knew it all too well and would have given all he possessed for having the doctor and his love exclusively.

 

 _Darling, so it goes_  
_Some things are meant to be_

 

Holmes stopped and his eyes were immediately magnetized back to the bed. His gaze could not be too long away from the doctor’s figure if they were close.

Watson was now sleeping on his back with one arm resting on his flat abdomen and the other softly falling towards the ground, his knuckles almost touching the rough wooden boards, only a moment before he had been caressed by tat hand and he felt intense emotions.

A shiver ran through him from head to toe when he remembered the feeling of the fingertips that ran slowly and lightly along his spine, as he was undressed and seduced by every kiss and every caress of his lover. His sex hardened again to those thoughts so exciting, so he tried to calm down with a deep sigh, only succeeding thanks to his strong self-control he had developed over the years, although he admitted that if he was confronted with Watson he was almost impossible to not surrender.

Did he really believe he could give it up and put an end to their meetings forever? Did he really even think for a second to leave him to Mary, depriving it as if nothing had happened?

He could not even have wished for it; all of him longed already to be taken again and then again, repeatedly, by the man.

Holmes only wanted to be loved by Watson and by him alone.

He could feel it with every part of his body, in every fibre of his being, that intense desire to have him inside him again, to fill the void that he always felt when they were divided; he wished to wake up the doctor, perhaps in a way that would immediately rekindle his passion, to be devoured again, but he managed to hold back.

He looked away before doing something that he would certainly regret. Instead, he resumed walking, trying to unload the sexual tension that had overwhelmed him; slowly, ever so slowly, with every step untoward, he felt it fade away.

The naked and slender body of the detective moved silently in the dim light, a vision that left decidedly breathless but there was no one to admire it.

The skin that covered well-trained and defined muscles was not only marked by the purple marks left by John, but also by numerous scars, memories of dangerous investigations such as the one on his right should, which had been a gift from the late Professor Moriarty. Sometimes Holmes till woke up in the middle of the night, barely holding back the screams of terror, feeling anew the pain of the enormous hook that had penetrated the flesh, lifting him up from the ground and dangling in the air like a slice of meat at the butcher.

What Holmes had not known back then, and what he had only discovered after by a reticent of Watson, was that Moriarty had chosen Schubert as a background music, orchestering everything like a Spider in a web. His very own background music for torture, for Moriarty to enjoy and relive the moment over and over, but also as a functional tool to harrowing the screams.

To distract him from it, Holmes forced his looks back to the sleeping figure.

The doctor also exhibited his scars, those he had suffered in the army and those he had obtained for him, like the small smooth and clear signs on most of his back due to the splinters of the pier that exploded after they had saved Irene.

That one time Holmes had really felt guilty and about the psychotic drug-induced journey he had used to try and figure out what the final act of Blackwood would be, he had all too often seen his twisted face as he reached out for to stop him once he noticed the explosives, his name had been shouted full of apprehension a moment before the first explosion occurred, the one that had completely overwhelmed the doctor and in that moment his heart was frozen.

Holmes had been sure that after that incident Watson would no longer have anything to do with him and his dangerous cases, especially now that he was about to get wed, but John Watson had surprised him another time. It had been a sweet surprise to open the eyes the next morning, still stunned by the abuse of drugs, and find Watson sitting in the same chair that he had used that night, apparently healthy enough to stand on his own and be ready again to continue the investigation. The detective had never confessed to his companion how much he had been grateful for that gesture of loyalty and already at that moment he had understood that John had become the fuel that operated the entity called Sherlock Holmes (only he was not ready to admit it yet).

Over the years, Watson had often taken bullets for him, had run alongside him for life, minding his wounds; oh, and the miraculous incident in the train! For one second, as Simza had told him later, he had been almost crying with bitterness and regret, and immediately after bringing him back to life with his wedding present, Watson had behaved as if he were sorry that Holmes was still alive.

When he had thought to be dying, he had no regrets. He had had Watson and thanks to him, he had known both love and passion and even before true friendship. He had had an intense and exciting life in which he had done something good for the world, however (fortunately!), his hour had not yet arrived.

Holmes took a few steps to approach the table near the wall, turning his back to the bed and administered himself his 7%-solution. It would calm him, he was sure of it.

The memory of those painful and difficult moments still shook his nerves. Usually he only left those thoughts free rein when no one could see him, when he was in company he hid behind an importable mask, especially when Watson was around.

He rested his palms on the walls, closed his eyes and lowered his head as if he were looking for strength to deal with something terrible and the stability of the old wooden planks that had seen certainly so much hold him upright. Holmes took a slow and deep breath, feeling his muscles relax little by little. His mind emptied very slowly.

Oh, he knew how fragile, how precarious his relationship with Watson was... there was always a certain agitation because Holmes was afraid that everything could end at any moment, all that was needed was that his companion would get tired of him, and he would be cast out of heaven.

Moreover, if one day Watson would leave him, how could he continue to live?

 

 _Take my hand_  
_Take my whole life, too_  
_For I can’t help falling in love with you_

 

Holmes had almost completely freed himself from his 7%-solution and all his other dangerous habits by finding a new addiction. He knew by now that only death would make him stop wanting the doctor because it was clear to him that his own life no longer belonged to him: Watson had become the master of everything. Holmes had placed his heart on the palm of John’s hand and it was up to him to decide whether to crush him to death by closing his fist or allowing him to continue to live by his love.

The detective smiled, melancholic, realizing how little it really mattered him, his own life, and that he truly allowed John to take everything and anything and more. All was terrible fragile in the face of such a sweet and terrible power as love.

Once Holmes calmed down, he went back to sitting down on the chair and re-started his pipe with a mechanical gesture. He was so used to doing it that his mind did not even register it, leaving the body moving as if it were a separate entity.

Watson had turned again in his sleep and this time his face was turned in his direction. Holmes could see it distinctly. While the candle was almost burned down, the pale light of a new morning filtered through the shutters of the windows. It was dawn.

It was not strange for the detective to stay up uninterruptedly for several days if it was about solving a case. Before, a dark mood would befall onto him when there were no riddles to crack; now, he spent the nights with Watson, active and passive, his conductor of light giving him a new reason to living outside of his job. He held his torch, quite literal.

Holmes remained absorbed in scrutinizing his lover’s beautiful, relaxed face, studying it carefully as if he had not already done it millions of times, perhaps billions, memorizing every curve and every stretch, if he had been asked to do so, he would have been able to draw it or describe it with his eyes closed in the smallest details, so much had he examined it meticulously and with desire.

The doctor was so different from him, almost the opposite, his moustache was perfect every day and his face was shaved, his clothes and hair were always impeccable, loyal to the rules and the rigid bearing of the army while Holmes was the emblem of chaos and bohemian lifestyle. At least, when he or they left the house, he tried to appear to be a respectable man. Not that he cared but he knew that Watson cared about his or their reputation. (In addition, Mycroft would be meddling and Mummy would be appalled, and anyway, Mrs. Hudson would never have it.)

When memorizing was not enough, when getting away to their private shelter was impossible, he was looking for any excuse to get away from the city, often taking refuge in his brother Mycroft’s country house until he regained enough control of himself to be Sherlock Holmes again.

Only one thing was certain, since the beginning of their secret meetings, he had almost stopped looking for physical pain (like boxing with bare fists, for instead, oh, yes, he opted for a different cockfight all together) thanks to the doctor who gave him everything he needed without even realizing it. There was a pleasure in pain, and oh, how Sherlock craved it.

 

_Take my hand_

_Take my whole life, too_

_For I can’t help falling in love with you_

 

Holmes saw the doctor’s eyelid flicker a couple of times before his eyes opened. Watson looked around in confusions, then his eyes rested on the man in front of him and his lips spread in a smile that lit up his face.

Those eyes of the most beautiful blue he had ever seen in nature, as always, bewitched the detective.

He returned his smile and stood up to reach his companion without worrying that he could see his naked body, but the doctor look away, blushing even.

“Good morning, doctor. I hope I did not wake you up,” Holmes said, knowing that he had done nothing to disturbed his sleep. Unable to resist, he bent over the doctor and caught his lips in a sweet kiss, ignoring the tingling of his moustache to which he had become accustomed (and nowadays found pleasing, erotic even).

“You did not,” Watson replied, his voice thick with sleep after returning it. He stretched his hand out and placed it on each side of Holmes’ head, caressing his hair. “Known, that it is today already, is strange, somehow.”

The detective did not answer, lay down next to his beloved and wrapped him in his arms, savouring the heat that drove away the cool of the sleepless night that he passed, completely erasing it as if had never been there.

Watson returned his embrace, finding the body of his companion colder than he should have been. Now, that he had woken up so many mornings by his side, he recognized the slight changes in his morning habits.

He raised his eyebrows and fixed Holmes with a serious look. “You did not sleep at all, did you?” The doctor asked in an exasperated tone, knowing he was right. Holmes laughed and kissed the man again in his arms.

“It was a very intense and profitable night,” Holmes replied, slowly running a hand down Watson’s skin. He could never get tired of touching him or watching him to touch himself. Watson was his world. And he was his. “And I managed to make a surprising discovery.”

“And what would it be?”

“That I cannot help but love you,” said Holmes, kissing him once again, before covering them both with the sheet to give Watson an exciting good morning.

 

_For I can’t help falling in love with you_

**Author's Note:**

> We (ade & kelian) loooove kudos. Comments are nice too ;)


End file.
